that's mrs. mediocrity to you

and the minutes
turn back into hours

resting lazily
on firmaments
of fiction

you with
your back turned

away

from the light
and this corner
always lurking

never parried

a universe
in small spaces

revealing worlds
or open secrets

building stories
one by one

toppling towers

picking up pieces
again and again

learning you
in new lessons

leaving scars
mixed with

salt

and midnight
smiles

.

.

.

because what choice do we have

and besides
the sun made a rare appearance this morning
dishes needed washing
we need to eat

and

some days
it’s fair to say

i’m tired.

part of me thinks
revolution
is for the young

and we’re all just
spinning

waiting
acting
watching
fighting

for
another
day

to stand
or soar
or sit with it all

once more

.

.

.

I couldn’t sleep for weeks
and then I remembered that I needed to write.

Ariel was always a dream, but a wakeful one,
whispering pictures and posturing portent.

I don’t need to sing, my body
is always happy to do that for me.

There’s a fire burning inside me (literally)
at the same time there’s a fire
burning down the world.

I lay awake at night and rage at everything,
but in a peaceful way.

I eat grace for breakfast and anomaly for lunch.

Everything has too many calories.
Something else I have to burn.

I can only sleep when my feet are cool
and mine are scorching these sheets
like my mother’s old iron.

This room is never dark enough,
and I am never really here.

It doesn’t matter.

Matter is energy and I am combustible.
I float like a gas just south of the ceiling.

No one ever notices, which is funny.
Except when I get stuck in cobwebs.

I’ve lived in this house longer than I haven’t.
It’s small and tiny and we are always tripping over each other.

I trip over everything anyway.

It’s winter and I miss the sky.

The snow geese are down at the swamp screaming injustice.

On New Year’s Eve the fireworks gave them fits
and I smiled as I stood
alone in the center of road
as white sparks drifted down
like lost feathers.

.

.

.

i swallow purple and dream of bluebells
blanketing a field made of permanence

they put me under and i bleed in tandem
with color-blind heart
and restless fingers
tapping love songs to spiders
in starlit soliloquy

and we run
through red rivers
black oceans
dead forests

never out of breath
or short of currency

trailing ribbons
weaving knots
stitching sides

un
raveling

.

.

.

eighteen years later
that’s what we call it

not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven

two words

three digits

two towers

four planes

thousands

of

mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends

not statistics

falling

from

the

sky

not dates
or where were you’s

just whole hearts
in odd numbers

each one

the only necessary

evidence

of love

::

.

.

I wrote this for the 10-year anniversary
of this tragic, horrid event.

I am re-posting it again today, in honor of all those hearts.

Never forget.

.

a giggle escapes
through the space
between
clouds

blue sky
bleeding
promises

and you
in the corner

throwing choices
at cracked white walls

always looking
for the one
that will stick

i hear an ocean of epitaph
singeing torn curtains

a whale on the roof
leaking tears
into gutter

grey gull
limping flight
through white waves of sand

a bead of laughter
rises up
beneath the surface

breaking skin and
creeping starfish
that will die
of too much sun

and the ball
rolling back in my
direction

comes to rest
at the edge
of false fealty

cliff hanger hopeful
and harpy sated

siren

marking grid
on fields of silent

glittered gauze

(as if it didn’t)

you held my hand and pretended
to be charmed, or charming, i forget

witch

as i wept the ocean, starfish and octopus
all legs and phosphorescence

circling

imprints in the sand that marched
back to the depths on a wave,

indifferent

.

.

.

.

.

kintsugi

three parts shard
and one part molten

we’ve forgotten how to fix things
         (it’s easier to discard)

we all have cracks
and fissures
dents and holes

some of us hide them
better than others

some of us fill them
with gold

polish edges
display as beauty

and some of us
sip from a cup

no longer leaking

.

. . . . .

you can find a definition of kintsugi here.

30 days. thanks so much for being here.

.

.

.

almost

the economy booms
and the shrapnel’s
made of lies

truths untold
litter fields
of reminiscence

the opposition
lining up
along one side

preparing for
a battle
no one wins

and poppies
line the forest
strewn with pride

.

. . . . .

.

.

.

asked and answered

in the middle of the afternoon
a long walk through urban forest

trees replaced with towering glass

jostling heads on unfurled shoulders

cement and asphalt impersonating
soil

heat pounding

heart pounding

noise rounding
corners

life
bleating
everywhere

unseen

.

. . . . .

.